


protagonist red

by hupsoonheng



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Transstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:43:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hupsoonheng/pseuds/hupsoonheng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>commission for tumblr user awakeforyears! "give me a thousand words of afab trans john in dresses and lingerie and mtf!dave being both lustful and kind of jealous about it for dysphoric envy reasons" and i wrote 1600 instead so, here we are. i also added a little extra at the end because i wanted to give lady dave something nice</p>
            </blockquote>





	protagonist red

When John invites you over after work, you don't think anything of it. It's only happened about a million times before; there used to be a time when you counted, but you lost track months ago. He works as an assistant to some hedge fund manager, a job that has nothing to do with his future career in engineering but one you envy nonetheless, if only for the pay. You work at Starbucks, but at least you can sling a mean frap. You guess. That doesn't have anything to do with your future career in sound engineering and mixing, either. 

His paycheck isn't the only thing you envy. Not that you'd tell him, of course, any less than you think he might rest his hand just shy of your groin and tell you you're so lucky to have a penis. Neither of you really go in for that kind of loutishness, though you think a Strider is a little more suited to observing the niceties (when necessary) than John Egbert. Where did Daddy Eggs go wrong with this one? 

Sometimes, as you nestle against each other and watch Elementary—your sister's recommendation, not your usual but pretty good anyway—one of you will idly wish you could swap certain body parts. Or well, you might say as you look at your chest that still manages to fill out a modest bra cup, in some cases you'd just have enough titty for the both of you. Maybe three of you, actually, because John's busoms are hefty even by the standards of someone who wouldn't mind having a pair. He sometimes says like, why isn't there a service for trans people being able to swap body parts? And you'll say I know, right? Get the fuck on that, science. He might add that he would find you better ovaries, though, because his are dotted with little cysts that make his forearms even hairier than yours, one of the only positive side effects. 

You actually met in your place of employ when John started his job, picking up this particularly nasty concoction of a frappucino that his boss apparently loves and needs every day of her life. It's the coconut that makes it gross, honestly. John appeared in this outfit that was, in many aspects, something out of the closet of a profession woman in her 40s, but had so many masculine touches that your radar was set off, the signal strengthening with the sight of his kind of lumpen chest, and the way he swallowed when your coworker blithely ma'amed him and sent him to the end of the bar to wait for his order. You definitely heard him state his name as John; his cup said Joan. You snuck the register marker to scribble an H over the a, and when you called out his name, he didn't look up at first, like maybe he was new to his masculine name—or he just wasn't used to having it used by strangers. You gave him the cup with a very deliberate _sir_ , and you stilled as he looked you over. You prayed for him to be as mindful. 

“Thank you, miss,” he said with this winning smile, complete with magnificent buck teeth, and your dumbass heart melted. You knew you shouldn't be so charmed by something as small as being correctly gendered by this boy you assumed you'd never see again—isn't that how so many girls like you walk right into bad trouble?—but he was cute, too, in that nerdy grandpa way so many trans boys manage to be, shirt tucked into purposely unflattering high-waisted trousers that make his butt look just fat rather than curvaceous. 

You dissociated yourself from him once he was out the door and threw yourself back into your work, but he appeared the next day, and the day after, and he would always watch you as you navigated the espresso machine and juggled blender pitchers behind the bar. He met you up after your shift once, tie knotted poorly and pants too long, and when you (hopefully) joked that he could kiss your steam wand burns better, he obliged, shy at first like he was waiting to be told he'd fucked up the social cues here. Then you bent down and he _really_ kissed you, and it was just over for you. 

You finish your shift and check your phone again; John sent you an infuriatingly long string of nothing but winking emotes that make you snort and shake your head. He's probably just horny on his day off, so you're gonna be extra vigilant about buckets of rose petals balanced on the tops of doors. You got got by that one twice already. 

You boot his front door open to check for pranks, and you throw his bedroom door open so hard it bounces off the wall for the same reason. There's a black mark on the wall from how many times you've been determined to not fall for that one. There's just John, though, standing in his bare feet—and something else. 

It's green, which is John's favorite color, despite everyone constantly associating him with blue. It's a soft seafoam green, to be something closer to exact, and it looks a lot like something a mermaid might choose if she suddenly found herself stranded in Herald Square and wanted a little taste of home. It struggles to support John's massive breasts and fails pretty spectacularly, because John has only one hideous bra left over from his days living as a girl and he claims to not be sure of where it is. But it's pretty anyway, something you never expected from rough-and-tumble John. 

“You bought a dress,” you say as you approach, closing the door behind you. It's a statement, delivered flat. You slide your fingers along the strap of it to hold up the price tag, and purse your lips with arched brows like, _not bad_. 

“Do you like it?” John says, and you stand back so he can give you a little twirl. It's chiffon-weight georgette, the piece of shit. You love anything even related to chiffon, though you're pretty sure there's no lifetime you'll ever live where you'll just be lounging in silk chiffon all day. A Strider can dream. 

“What fucking possessed you?” you ask, touching the supple ribbon waistband just under John's heavy tits. It's not like you're not plenty familiar with these tits, but it's such an alien sight to see them pushed together like this. You have an incredible urge to motorboat them, but besides the fact that John is not generally psyched to have them touched, you feel like it would ruin the moment. You put your other hand on the other side of his waist and it doesn't help curb the urge in the least. 

“I dunno,” he says with a shrug. You're totally imagining him subtly shifting to push his boobs into your hands, right? “It's not like I don't still feel entirely, one hundred percent dude. I just miss pretty things, kinda. I guess. I dunno. I guess you don't like it.” 

“Who said I don't like it?” you want to know. You keep running your hands over the fabric that drapes over John's hips with envy. He looks _pretty_. “I'm just wondering where mine is, duh.” 

“Oh!” John breaks for the bed, where a shopping bag that previously escaped your notice sits. “I kept the receipt in case I was overdoing it, but I guess I'm not, since you like mine so much.” One chubby arm dives into the bag, and emerges with a fistful of red georgette that makes your heart stop. He pulls the rest out—yours is probably two sizes bigger than his—and pools it into your arms, the slippery textile cool and smooth against your skin. 

John helps divest you of your work-sweaty clothes that smell like coffee grounds, gently kissing the skin he reveals with each tug. When stepping into the dress is met with failure thanks to the size of your belly _and_ ass working against you, he helps keep it straight as you drop it onto your body from above. You wish your hair were long enough to need to be pushed up and out of the way as John zips you. 

“You look so good,” he whispers as he adjusts the fit around your breasts, which don't even begin to fill the dress out like his do. He turns you toward the full length mirror hung on the back of his door at a crooked angle. Now it's his turn to stand back as you twirl for yourself, fucking resplendent in protagonist red, and you wonder if John did that on purpose or if he just chose favorite colors, like a five year old lording over a box of crayons. 

“Wanna go out tonight?” John asks, planting strong, small hands on your waist. 

“Uh, maybe if you'd given me notice to shave my legs or at least grab some tights, asshole,” you snort. “I’m not going out in Chucks with this nice-ass dress.” 

“Are you saying you wanna stay in with these nice-ass dresses?” John asks as he pulls you toward the bed to sit. 

“They don't have to stay on,” you say. John agrees silently when his hand pinches the top of your zipper, the other pulling down. You make a mental note to definitely go out in this dress, though. These dresses, because you both look fine as hell.

**Author's Note:**

> COMMISSION ME http://softurl.tumblr.com/post/69616044739


End file.
